The 7th Canon by Robert Dugoni Page B

He retrieved his gym bag from beneath his desk, about to slip on sweatpants when a noise at the door surprised him. Ruth-Bell stood in his office doorway in her raincoat and scarf, holding a brown paper bag.
    “Your hair is soaking wet,” she said, ever the master of the obvious.
    “Can you give me a minute?”
    She walked in anyway. “You’ve got nothing I want to see and haven’t seen before. Give me those wet clothes. You’ll catch your death of a cold. That’s just what I need—both you and your uncle in the hospital.”
    She had obviously recovered her fire, if not yet the brimstone.
    Donley pulled on his sweatpants and wrapped a towel around his shoulders like a prizefighter. “If I’m lucky, I’ll get the flu and not some twenty-four-hour bug. I need something that would last about a week. Hong Kong, King Kong, whatever they call it. What are you doing here, anyway? I thought you’d gone to the hospital.”
    She gathered his clothes as he struggled to pull a sweatshirt over his head. “This office doesn’t run on its own, you know.” She gestured to his desk, which was cluttered with open legal books and newspapers. “I pulled every article I could find from the library. I think I’m on information overload.”
    “What are you talking about? What articles?”
    “Articles on Father Martin and the shelter; they’re on your desk.”
    Donley picked up a small stack of articles and thumbed the pages.
    “They’re arranged in chronological order, most recent first,” she said. “Oh, and the arraignment is tomorrow morning. We received fax notice this afternoon.”
    “I know.”
    “They’re holding it in the ceremonial courtroom, Department Thirteen. Apparently, His Highness, Gil Ramsey, is expecting a large crowd and wants to play to the cameras, the pretentious shit.”
    She found hangers behind Donley’s door and started to untangle his wet clothes. “They’re not doing you any favors. Milton Trimble and Lou sparred more than once during their careers. Keep your mouth shut, your temper under control, and speak only when spoken to. His courtroom is a tight ship.”
    “How’s Lou?”
    “Not much change, according to his doctors.” She hung his clothes from the window frame. A drop of water hissed when it hit the radiator, and the radiator emitted a small puff of steam. “If anyone at the hospital asks, Lou has a younger sister. That was the only way I could get in to see him. But I couldn’t stay. It made me jumpy seeing him lying there like that. Where did you go after your meeting with the archbishop? That should have been over hours ago.”
    Donley sat and rested his elbows on his knees. “I had a pleasant chat with Mr. Ramsey himself.”
    “Lucky you.”
    “For laughs, he brought Linda St. Claire along.”
    “Who?”
    “You know, the blonde who’s always on the television commenting on those high-profile criminal cases.”
    “Another pretentious shit.”
    “Yeah, well, she’s been anointed to crucify Father Martin.”
    “What did they want?”
    Donley sat up. “According to the archbishop, they wanted to discuss the evidence against Father Martin. Now, I’m not so sure.”
    “What do you mean?”
    “It was something Ramsey said; I think they’re looking for Father Martin to confess in exchange for a plea of life.”
    “A plea?” Ruth-Bell said. “Where did you get that idea? The DA doesn’t plea murderers. I even know that.”
    “Where were you an hour ago when I was making a fool of myself?” He shook his head. “It sure seemed like Ramsey was hinting at it, though.” He focused on a spot on the hardwood floor. “Why would he do that, Ruth-Bell?”
    It was a question Donley had pondered the entire miserable walk back to his office. It was a question he wished he’d asked Gil Ramsey. It didn’t make any sense.
    He continued. “If the case is as strong as they say, they could get a conviction and worry about the penalty phase after they’d soaked up the